Create In Me A Clean Heart
by WinterSky101
Summary: After the events at the convent, Aramis can't sleep. His incessant prayers are irritating to Athos and Porthos, until they aren't. Aramis/Athos/Porthos. Second in "Love Covereth All Sins."


**This takes place after a slightly AU version of _Knight Takes Queen_ in which Aramis doesn't sleep with the queen, considering he's already seeing Athos and Porthos. I wanted to see more of Aramis' emotions after Isabelle/Hélène's death, and this fic seemed best suited to this 'verse.**

 **The title is from Psalm 51, which is recited later in the fic, and the rest of the prayers are from the 1789 Book of Common Prayer.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Musketeers.**

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The wooden floor was hard against Aramis' knees, but he didn't stand. He folded his hands and pressed his fingertips into the bones in the back of his hands as hard as he could. The hint of pain grounded him, kept him from spiraling off into memory.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die," Aramis whispered. John 11:25-26.

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God : whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." Job 19:25-27.

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out." 1 Timothy 6:7. "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord." Job 1:21.

The burial rites seemed hollow without the actual body there, but Aramis whispered them anyway. If he closed his eyes, he could feel Isabelle's body in his arms, could picture the look in her eyes when the light went out of them. He couldn't sleep. He knew Athos and Porthos were sleeping peacefully on the bed behind him, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to join them and curl up in their warmth, but he couldn't. Isabelle was dead, and the nuns would give her a proper burial, but Aramis knew that the grief aching in his chest demanded resolution of its own.

"Lord," he whispered, "let me know mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be certified how long I have to live." The words seemed to stick in Aramis' throat, but he pushed them out. "Behold, thou hast made my days as it were a span long, and mine age is even as nothing in respect of thee; and verily every man living is altogether vanity. For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them. And now, Lord, what is my hope?" Aramis' voice broke on the last word. At that moment, he felt as if he had no hope left. "Truly my hope is even in thee."

"Aramis."

The soft sound of Athos' voice was almost enough to break Aramis completely. He hadn't explained what had happened at the convent to Athos. In a private moment, while the queen slept, Aramis had allowed himself to shake with unshed tears in Athos' arms, but they hadn't had the time for any explanations. Now, Aramis ached with the need to unburden himself, to explain his grief to someone else.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, surprised at how hoarse his voice came out.

"Woke both of us," Porthos replied. "What are you down there muttering about? Come back to bed."

"I-" It wasn't Aramis' fault that Isabelle had died, except that in a way it was. If not for him, she would never have been at the convent in the first place. If not for him, the assassins after the queen never would have targeted the convent. If not for him, she never would have been down in the cellar alone, vulnerable to attack. Would Aramis spread that poison to Athos and Porthos now too? Was it a danger that clung to everyone who shared his bed, who claimed a piece of his heart?

"Aramis, what's wrong?" Athos asked quietly, a hand falling on Aramis' shoulder. "Are you injured?"

"No," Aramis breathed. "No, I- It's nothing."

"It's clearly not," Porthos countered. He sat down cross-legged on the floor next to Aramis. "Tell us what's wrong."

"I-" Aramis looked from Porthos on one side to Athos settling down on the other. "When we were at the convent, there was a nun that I… I recognized."

"Who was it?" Athos asked quietly.

"Isabelle," Aramis breathed, allowing the name to escape his lips. "She called herself Sister Hélène, but I knew her as Isabelle."

"The nun who died?" Athos asked.

Aramis choked on a sob and nodded. "We were friends as children. When we were young, she fell pregnant and we were engaged to be married. Then she lost the baby and disappeared. I never saw her again, not until…"

"Until the convent," Porthos said quietly.

"Where she died," Athos finished. "Aramis, I'm so sorry."

"It's my fault," Aramis murmured, bowing his head with grief. "She would never have gone to the convent if not for me. If we hadn't-"

"You can't blame yourself for that," Porthos interrupted. "It wasn't your fault, Aramis."

"We led Gallagher to the convent," Aramis whispered. "We put them in danger. This would never have happened-"

"If not for Gallagher," Athos stated firmly. "And whoever hired him. This is in no way your fault, Aramis."

"What are you doing down here?" Porthos asked quietly.

"Funeral rites," Aramis replied. "I know the nuns will do it, but-"

"We can do it with you," Athos offered quietly. "Is there any way we can help?"

"I don't know-" Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't remember what comes next."

"There's something about ashes in there somewhere, isn't there?" Porthos asked. Aramis let out a hoarse chuckle despite himself, which he knew was Porthos' intention.

"Should we do something else instead?" Athos asked quietly.

"I don't know what," Aramis replied.

Athos took one of Aramis' hands in his own. Porthos reached out and took the other one. "Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions," he whispered. The fifty-first psalm. Aramis knew this one, having learned it when he spent a year in a seminary his parents had put him into. How Athos knew it, he had no idea.

"Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin," Aramis continued. His voice was still hoarse, as if he had been crying. He hadn't shed a single tear, but he had the feeling that, were he to start, he wouldn't stop crying for quite some time. "For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me."

"No idea what you two are reciting," Porthos admitted, when it came to his turn.

Athos continued instead. "Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest."

"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me," Aramis murmured. He was speaking more to himself now than to anyone else, but Athos and Porthos' grip on his hands was enough of an anchor to keep himself from drowning. "Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me," Athos stated, then paused. "I don't remember the rest."

The next line was on the tip of Aramis' tongue, but he couldn't find the breath to say it. Instead, a gasping sob escaped from his throat, and Porthos' arms were around him in an instant when the first tears began to fall. Aramis gripped the thin cloth of Porthos' shirt as tightly as he could. Athos began rubbing one hand down his back and tangled the other gently in his hair, with just enough tension to keep Aramis from spiraling too far.

"You're alright," Porthos whispered in his ear. "You're alright."

"It wasn't your fault," Athos told Aramis firmly, and Aramis sobbed.

At some point, Aramis must have fallen asleep, for he woke up when the first rays of dawn crept through the window. He was lying in the bed, sandwiched between Athos and Porthos. Both of them were curled towards him, leaving him in the center of their love and warmth.

The guilt was still a monster in his chest, but its gnawing had subsided. Aramis could breathe more easily now, could enjoy the moment with Athos and Porthos without feeling as if he were betraying Isabelle. She was gone, and he would mourn her, but he would not let it control his life.

"'Mis?" Porthos slurred, looking over at him. "Why're you up?"

"Mmm." Athos wrapped his arms around Aramis' waist, holding him in place. "Stay here."

"Shouldn't we leave for the garrison?" Aramis asked.

"Tréville gave us the morning off, remember?" Porthos replied. He draped a heavy arm over Aramis and Athos. "We don't need to get up yet. Go back to sleep."

And Aramis closed his eyes, and he did.


End file.
